


Written on the Body

by thalialunacy



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Chris has a pen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written on the Body

**Author's Note:**

> For the_dala. Prompt from 1297. Title stolen from a book.

The hotel room is an arctic wasteland, the wall of AC smiting him as he walks in at the end of a long fucking 14 hours. All day, sitting through interview after interview and signing thing after shitty thing, he'd been thinking of this. He'd imagined stripping off the confining suit and flopping onto bed in just his underwear.

But now, here tis, and the cold is far less welcoming than he'd anticipated. Empty, yet full and punishing.

Which is fucking ridiculous, because he's punished enough already. Every god damn day.

But he takes it.

He walks across the room to the chair by the window. Opens the curtains. Sits down. Stares out the window.

Contemplates where his life took such a drastic turn.

That's the thing, though: it wasn't drastic. It was a sneaky lifetime buildup, in the career sense, and a sneaky year long buildup, in the… other sense.

He grimaces.

The knock on the door is quiet but firm, just like the man himself, three and then one, just like always.

Chris sits there for a moment, just like always, contemplating not answering. For the good of the--everything.

But as always, the good of the self wins over, and he opens the door.

And the sight of Karl washes comfort over him, and suddenly he can move again.

So he does.

He shuts the door behind Karl and crowds him into it, reaching in to tongue at his neck, reaching up to--

"Whoa, try not to Sharpie my face, mate," Karl chuckles quietly, his fingers encircling Chris's wrist.

Chris pulls his head back and blinks at him, then sees the pen still in his own hand, uncapped from the last session outside the hotel. It's so fucking pathetic, he'd laugh, but--

He now has other ideas.

He puts the pen between his teeth and reaches for Karl again, tugging at buttons until Karl's back is on the mattress and Karl's shirt is wide open. He pulls the pen out of his mouth, bites through the sparse crisp hair revealed, then sucks a mark into the skin that'll just barely be hidden by a collar.

Karl hisses.

Chris doesn't apologize.

Instead, he pulls back, straddling Karl's hips deliberately and relishing as Karl pushes up against him restlessly. Then Chris shifts a little, takes his left hand and only fumbles once as he gets it into Karl's pants and around Karl's cock.

Karl sucks in a breath, his eyes wide and--here's the killer--trusting as they stare at Chris. Chris shows him no mercy, though, stroking hard and fast, stroking like he knows Karl likes it-- and with his right hand he's slowly writing across Karl's chest-- four letters, one word, and the ultimate sin.

Karl can't really see it but he sees enough, Chris knows, because he lets out a curse and pulls until their lips meet. Chris accepts this, revels in it, adjusting his position until his tongue is thrusting into Karl's mouth even as his hand pulls roughly at his cock, playing the delicious, base game until there's a hitch and a groan and Karl's lips part around a gasp against Chris's while he comes in soft bursts across Chris's skin.

Chris keeps kissing him softly, keeps touching him softly, feeling the shudders, feeling triumphant, feeling sick. Chris knows he will burn for this like he already burns in these moments, will burn daily after the tour, will burn forever if that's what's destined for his soul-- But in moments like this, he knows he'd never choose any other path.

Moment by moment they shift, they move a little until Chris is draped across Karl's side, forehead on the dip in his shoulder, tracing the letters across his chest.

 _Mine._

Just because he can't say it doesn't make it a lie.


End file.
